


A-Tisket, A-Tasket

by crochetaway



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:02:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26904814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crochetaway/pseuds/crochetaway
Summary: Hermione Granger is out for revenge.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 29
Collections: Knockturn Tricks or Diagon Treats





	A-Tisket, A-Tasket

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [KnockturnTricksOrDiagonTreats](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/KnockturnTricksOrDiagonTreats) collection. 



> **A/N: This was written for the Death Eater Groupies Knockturn Tricks or Diagon Treats fest in 2020! It was such a fun one to write for and I somehow one a couple of awards for it: Mistresses Pick: Admin's Choice, Most Wicked Trick: Best Trick, and Owl Didn't See That Coming: Best Suprise Ending. Thanks to everyone who voted and read this kind of strange little story!**
> 
> **Thank you to Fae Orabel for her work and attention to detail.**
> 
> **If you like this (or hated it) let me know about it in a review! You can find me on Tumblr at crochetawayhpff or Facebook at Shan Crochetaway. Enjoy!**

* * *

Hermione Granger was mad. Angry. Irate. Livid. Incandescent with rage. It was all that fueled her these days. Her limbs felt hot and heavy with it. Bile crawled up the back of her throat, filled with fury. She was moments away from hitting—or hexing someone—or something at all times. Nothing she did cooled the fire that filled her. And occasionally, when it did brim over, she had to find an empty field and let her hexes fly.

 _She_ wasn’t supposed to be the one who lived. All her preparations and plans were for naught when she realized she was the only one of the Golden Trio still standing at the end of the Battle of Hogwarts. Both Ron and Harry were dead in the courtyard and the scream she let loose at the realization made everyone who heard it shiver. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. _She_ didn’t have a family to go back to. Her own parents had been early casualties in the war. And with Ron dead, with Harry dead, the Weasley’s wanted nothing to do with her.

Most of the wizarding world wanted nothing to do with her anyway. Without their savior, they wanted to forget the bloody war had ever happened. It was mind-boggling as much as it was understandable. However, Hermione couldn’t forget. Hermione _wouldn’t_ forget. And frankly, Voldemort and the rest of his cronies got off lightly, and she wasn’t about to stand for it.

Many people considered Hermione Granger mad with grief over her dead friends. And maybe she was. _Maybe I am,_ she thought to herself as that damned song sang itself in her head again. She scratched at the open, weeping wound on her arm. It itched. Down to the bone, it seemed, and she couldn’t stop herself from scratching at it. Even if she could, it didn’t, wouldn’t heal.

 _A-tisket, a-tasket  
_ _A red and bloody basket  
_ _I send a letter to a demon  
_ _On the way, I dropped it_

 _I dropped it, I dropped it  
_ _Yes, on the way, I dropped it  
_ _A little devil picked it up  
_ _And put it in his pocket_

It sounded eerie in her head like a child listlessly singing it over and over again as she swung on a swing in a deserted playground. Even the image it conjured was otherworldly and nightmarish. It began once she started her research into necromancy.

Had anyone asked it of her even a year ago, they would have laughed at the suggestion that Hermione Granger was a dark witch. Forthright, perhaps a bit vengeful, but dark? No. Certainly not that. Never that. She helped defeat Voldemort after all, the darkest of dark wizards.

But necromancy _was_ dark.

There wasn’t any way to make it light. But what else could she do? Who else to punish for all her rage inside her if not the person who caused it to begin with?

This is the story of how Hermione Granger raised the dead.

Specifically, Voldemort.

* * *

 _A-tisket, a-tasket  
_ _A red and bloody basket  
_ _I send a letter to a demon  
_ _On the way, I dropped it_

 _I dropped it, I dropped it  
_ _Yes, on the way, I dropped it  
_ _A little devil picked it up  
_ _And put it in his pocket_

* * *

She shook her head, trying to shake that damned song from her ears, but it rang there, repeatedly, no matter what she did. It was the worst sort of earworm. And it, above anything else, had her questioning her sanity. Logically, she knew it was just a product of her overactive imagination, but part of her wondered if there had been a curse she hadn’t seen attached to one of those dark, moldy books she had hidden away from Molly’s purging at Grimmauld Place all those years ago.

Scratching at her arm again she hissed when her fingertips came away bloody. Her nails were dirty with old bits of blood stuck beneath them.

Knowledge was knowledge, after all. And Hermione hated to see knowledge being wasted or thrown away. So she had snagged all the books Molly had wanted to be tossed and hid them away. Some she found were useful in learning about Horcruxes. Many she didn’t even look at until her idea of revenge came upon her.

Vengeance was not something she had ever given much thought to, despite her past uses of it on Marietta Edgecombe and Dolores Umbridge. Prior to her best friends and only family dying, she had thought vengeance was petty. Therapy and moving on were better options, thank you very much. Except when it happened to her.

Now that she felt she had nothing to live for, vengeance was all she could think about. At first, she wanted vengeance on the Death Eaters who had survived, but they were mostly in Azkaban and the ones who had survived were not the architects of the war. Voldemort was dead. The Lestranges, Crouch, Macnair, Gibbons, Rowle, Dolohov, all dead. If she was going to have vengeance it should be on the people who murdered her parents. Who murdered Harry and Ron. That was Voldemort. Sure, perhaps he sent some minions to her parents’ home, but ultimately it was he who signed their death warrant. So, it was he who should pay.

 _A-tisket, a-tasket  
_ _A red and bloody basket  
_ _I send a letter to a demon  
_ _On the way, I dropped it_

 _I dropped it, I dropped it  
_ _Yes, on the way, I dropped it  
_ _A little devil picked it up  
_ _And put it in his pocket_

That gods-be-damned melody wouldn’t leave her brain as she stalked her way through Knockturn Alley, intent on picking up the final few things she needed for her ritual. She had practiced, of course, but bringing back dead animals was a far sight easier than bringing back a dead human. This ritual called for some unseemly ingredients that she was hard-pressed to find, even in Knockturn Alley. She had bribed one of the apothecaries to get her elephant and rhinoceros hearts. Even she was squeamish using those sorts of ingredients, but she was determined to perform the ritual. She wanted to bring him back, to make him think that he was going to get another chance at life. Then she wanted him to realize exactly who had brought him back before she murdered him again. She might even do it more than once. That possibility sent a thrill through her.

Blood magic was as dangerous as it was dark, and necromancy the worst sort of blood ritual a witch or wizard could do. Mostly because it was seductive. Hermione could see, now that she had performed several rituals, just _how_ seductive it was. Just imagining what the blood rite to call Voldemort back from the dead would entail made her heart race and her skin tighten with anticipation.

Blood, of course, her own, plus others. A sacrifice was called for a ritual that big, and not a little one. She would have to spill the blood of a magical creature, one that contained enough blood to bring back an entire human body. Salamanders and bats weren’t going to do it. It was going to have to be a Thestral.

As much as she hated killing one of the gentle creatures, the fact that they were so gentle was part of the reason she had chosen it. She didn’t want to have to fight with some magical beast and be tired before the actual murder of Voldemort.

Her heart sang in her chest at those words. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on the man and cause him a slow and painful death. It was what he deserved. It was the catharsis she knew she needed. She had no plans after the necromantic ritual. But she had hope. Mad as she was, she hoped that it would be enough to chill the white-hot rage that boiled in her veins.

 _A-tisket, a-tasket  
_ _A red and bloody basket  
_ _I send a letter to a demon  
_ _On the way, I dropped it_

 _I dropped it, I dropped it  
_ _Yes, on the way, I dropped it  
_ _A little devil picked it up  
_ _And put it in his pocket_

She shook her head fiercely again, trying and failing to get those bloody words out of her ears. Her arm itched, and she scratched frantically at it through her robes. She didn’t miss the fact that a group of witches crossed the street at the sight of her. Hissing in their direction, she pulled her hood up over her head, attempting to hide her face, though her hair was so out of control these days she could barely get the hood to her face. She needed a larger cloak. Then she’d truly look like the crazed hag the papers called her.

Cackling to herself, she entered the first of her many stops.

Most rituals needed a few of the same things. Salt or sand to create a circle. The circle acted as a shield charm, keeping magic in or out, depending on the ritual. Candles, chalk, and various herbs to create the pentagram. She needed vervain to cleanse the ritual space. It was preferred over sage in this sort of ritual as it didn’t leave a lingering effect of banishment. The last thing Hermione wanted to do was banish Voldemort. No, she wanted to call him _to_ her. Boneset burned as incense to call her enemy forth and safflower to anchor her enemy to this plane.

Common enough herbs, but bought together could raise some questions. So Hermione intended to go to three different apothecaries to make her purchases. Spreading out the ritual purchases among ordinary ones to confuse those who were tracking her.

She hurried out of the first shop, her package hidden in an interior pocket of her robe, as the wind picked up and fall leaves skittered down the alley. Her cloak whipped around her as she made her way deeper into Knockturn Alley where the streets really twisted and turned, the buildings so close together that three people couldn’t walk abreast in places. This was a place that a year ago, Hermione Granger wouldn’t have been caught dead in. Now, it felt familiar, like home. One of the few places in wizarding Britain to find some of the ingredients she was looking for. Places that wouldn’t question why the remaining member of the Golden Trio was looking for all the components to perform a blood rite.

 _A-tisket, a-tasket  
_ _A red and bloody basket  
_ _I send a letter to a demon  
_ _On the way, I dropped it_

 _I dropped it, I dropped it  
_ _Yes, on the way, I dropped it  
_ _A little devil picked it up  
_ _And put it in his pocket_

She was hearing that damned song so much that she found herself skipping along and singing it under her breath. At least now that she was deeper into the alley, there were less respectable witches and wizards eyeing her, gossiping about her. Here she felt she could be with her people. People wronged in life, just as she was. And mostly, people who kept their heads down and ignored everyone around them.

She picked up her final products, the animal hearts, and tucked them away into her satchel. They couldn’t be shrunk. The smell of blood lingered around her, but she had long become used to it. Now she needed to procure the Thestral and make her way to her ritual space.

It had taken her a while to decide exactly where she was going to hold this ritual. It needed to be performed outdoors on Samhain, with the moon in the sky. She would have liked to hold it at a standing stone, but with the blood magic, that was out of the question. She was doing necromancy, not calling forth the old gods. Instead, she had found a clearing in the Forbidden Forest that was far enough from Hogwarts and Hogsmeade that she could light her fire and it wouldn’t be seen. Luckily wards along the outside of the clearing wouldn’t interfere with the ritual itself. The last thing she needed was an acromantula stumbling through as she sacrificed the Thestral.

 _A-tisket, a-tasket  
_ _A red and bloody basket  
_ _I send a letter to a demon  
_ _On the way, I dropped it_

 _I dropped it, I dropped it  
_ _Yes, on the way, I dropped it  
_ _A little devil picked it up  
_ _And put it in his pocket_

Hermione found herself twitching as that blasted song sang itself over and over again in her head. She Apparated directly to Hogsmeade, scurrying out of the main shopping district and into a back alley before she could be seen, scratching mindlessly at her arm as she went. It was late, the shops were closing, the sun had set hours ago. The only way into the Forbidden Forest was by walking. Hogwarts wards extended over the entire place, protecting its magical inhabitants. The leaves hadn’t quite all fallen yet, but the canopy was beginning to look sparse. She cast a silencing charm at her feet to avoid the crunching of the leaves as she began making her way through the forest itself. There wasn’t much undergrowth in this part, and it was easy to hurry along the path toward the clearing.

The clearing itself wasn’t along the path, she’d have to cut through the forest itself to get there, but she’d marked the best place to cut a few weeks ago. Hopefully, her mark was still there as the moon was rising soon and she still needed to prepare the ritual space.

She spotted it a few moments later, a red Algiz rune on a tree off to the right side of the path. Hermione picked her way along the sparse vegetation. She could just make out the small rise that hid the clearing from the path.

The moon was up by the time she reached the clearing and she hurried down the rise. Settling her satchel and her cloak in the center of the clearing, she began pulling out everything she would need for the ritual. The Thestral, she still needed, so she hung a chunk of raw meat from a tree at the edge of the clearing, to lure one out. They had excellent noses, like sharks, so at least one would be along shortly.

As she organized her supplies, she heard a noise behind her and whirled to find a large Thestral yanking at the meat. Flicking her wand, she stupefied the Thestral and levitated it into the center of the clearing. Now she could begin.

She skipped along the border of the clearing singing that same, eerie, haunting song beneath her breath as she cast the appropriate wards to keep anyone and anything out of the area. Her arm was bleeding freely now, and she dripped blood all around the outer edges of the clearing as she did her casting.

“ _A-tisket, a-tasket  
_ _A red and bloody basket  
_ _I send a letter to a demon  
_ _On the way, I dropped it_

 _I dropped it, I dropped it  
_ _Yes, on the way, I dropped it  
_ _A little devil picked it up  
_ _And put it in his pocket."  
_

Instead of trying to push the song away, she embraced it and sang even louder as she poured the sand around the perimeter of the clearing, creating a circle in which to call Voldemort forth.

Next was the pentagram, she worked by moonlight to etch it out in crushed chalk. A candle sat at each point and dried herbs ran along the outside. She made the pentagram around the Thestral. Now that she had begun the ceremony, she wanted no interference from wand magic. Necromancy didn’t rely on wands and didn’t play well with that type of magic. She tucked her wand away just as the wind whipped through the clearing, blowing her hair in her face and whispering amongst the trees. It was an eerie night, perfect for this sort of work.

Once the ritual space was ready, she took a deep breath, ready to begin. Flicking her fingers the candles all lit up at once, offering more light, but of the flickering variety as the wind continued to blow. The dagger she planned to use on the Thestral was the same one that was used on her during the war. She felt it was poetic and wished for a moment she was calling Bellatrix back from the grave. Maybe she would be next.

With a wandless Rennervate, the Thestral woke and tried to stand. Hermione jumped on top of it and quickly slit its throat. The hot, wet blood streamed down her hand holding the knife and steamed as it hit the forest floor. Her own blood mingling with the Thestral’s and the tang of iron hit her nose.

Then she began chanting in Latin. Calling forth Voldemort body and soul, literally yanking him from the afterlife and into the earthly realm. As she did this, she slashed through the nasty word on her arm and used the blood that poured forth to trace the pentagram.

Just as the moon reached its peak in the sky, a shadowy presence appeared next to her in the center of the pentagram.

* * *

Voldemort made a literal deal with the devil when he finally died. It wasn’t just a little deal either, it was a fairly large one and now, now that deal was coming home to roost. The problem was that Voldemort, as Slytherin as he was, wasn’t quite cut out to be a demon. Demons were like Slytherins times a thousand. Not only did they never do _anything_ for anyone without a deal in place, the deal always had to favor the demon while _appearing_ to favor the human. It was damned difficult to do, and Voldemort had lost his wheeling-and-dealing touch about the same time he lost his original body. Spending a decade and some change as a bodiless wraith will do that to a person.

The other problem was that Voldemort hadn’t had a boss since he was in his twenties. Fifty years without a boss was a long time. He was unaccustomed to following someone else’s orders. And, it was downright grating, listening to this ancient demon yell at him for once again making a deal with a human that favored the human and not the demons.

“Maybe you’re too soft,” his boss, Kal’gon said, having finally blown out all his anger and sitting heavily behind his desk. That was another thing. The demons were much more bureaucratic than Voldemort would have assumed. Sure, they were still within the gates of hell, but it was all very suburban-business-park-like. Perhaps that’s what made it hell? Voldemort wouldn’t know, considering he’d never been inside a suburban business park.

Kal’gon looked like the Muggle stereotype of a demon. His skin was human-like but had a decidedly reddish tint, he had a pair of horns on his head as well, but instead of making him look silly, they made him look dangerous. His eyes were like goats eyes, with a horizontal slit that Voldemort still wasn’t quite used to. And, he was huge. Much taller than Voldemort, even though Voldemort was tall by human male standards. The strange Muggle suit he wore did little to hide his true size.

“Soft? Me? I killed a baby for a prophecy for Merlin’s sake! I’m—”

“You _tried_ to kill a baby. Didn’t really succeed, did you?” Kal’gon glared at him from across the desk. Voldemort crossed his arms and looked away. Harry Potter was still very much a sore spot for him.

“I am Salazar Slytherin's heir, I can out Slytherin anyone on earth,” Voldemort tried again.

“But we aren’t on earth, are we? We’re in hell. And you’ll notice that Salazar Slytherin is nowhere to be found. You made the deal, I expect you to honor it. If you want to be a demon of any note, you’ll figure this out. You owe me a soul.” Kal’gon dismissed him with a wave of his hand. Voldemort sent him a withering glance, before stalking out of the office and to his cubicle. Yes, he even had a cubicle. How very pedestrian.

He sorted through his files, trying to find one he could maybe renegotiate. It was hard because he wasn’t a very well known demon. He certainly didn’t get called for by name, like Kal’gon and other demons who had been around for the last millennia or so. Instead, he was put in a pool with lesser demons and they rotated based on availability whenever anybody called for a demon but didn’t name the demon. It wasn’t a terrible system, although Voldemort had no idea that Muggles summoned demons, too.

It was a dying art in the British Isles, but some of the more primitive areas of the world still relied on demon summoning for their more advanced bits of magic. That’s who he had assumed would be doing the bulk of the summoning. Imagine his surprise then, when it was Muggles who mostly summoned demons these days. What in the world would a Muggle want with a demon?

Plenty, it turned out, from contraception spells to fertility spells to vengeance on enemies. Anything a witch or wizard could want or need, Muggles asked for as well. It was tiresome. Especially when he hadn’t quite figured out what exactly it was that made a deal good for demons. Obviously, a Muggle who wanted a fertility spell wasn’t about to give up their child in return. How was he supposed to trick the Muggle out of such a thing?

He had never felt like a dunce before becoming a demon. Now he felt like one all of the time, and it was humbling. Something he hadn’t much experience with. It was also infuriating, but most of his anger was directed at himself. He was Salazar Slytherin's heir for Merlin’s sake! He should have been able to out Slytherin anyone, least of all Muggles. The fact that he was struggling so hard was irritating, to say the least.

Voldemort shook his head. He needed to concentrate. Perhaps if he learned more Demon law, he would be better equipped to deal with the next Muggle who inevitably called him forth. It was dull reading and, not for the first time, did he regret his decision to make a deal with the demons upon his death. What would his death be if he hadn’t? There was no finding out now, and the last thing he wanted to do was get demoted from the demons. Then he would just be in hell, and he’d seen some of that suffering first hand and wanted no part in it. Though, he hadn’t imagined he’d be stuck in this middle-management nightmare when the Potter boy had finally managed to kill him.

That was galling enough, his sworn enemy, who he tried to kill as a literal baby, and failed, had grown up to kill him instead. Voldemort had never hated life before, but he was starting to now. If going back and haunting Potter had been an option, he might have gone for it. But he hadn’t, he’d decided the demons were enough like the Death Eaters. He’d known he wouldn’t just automatically become their leader, but to find out he wasn’t even a good demon? It was almost more than he could handle. But he was determined. He had only been a demon for a few months. Surely, they would give him the leeway to find his place among their ranks.

It was as he was having these thoughts that he felt a tug at his naval. Almost like a Portkey, though not quite so insistent.

“What is going on?” he growled to himself, standing quickly. The other lesser demons in the surrounding cubicles watched him closely as he stumbled forward. There was exciting chatter. A glance down at his hands showed a subtle orange glow about his skin.

“You’re being called!” someone shouted.

“A repeat customer?” another suggested.

Voldemort kept stumbling forward, toward the great fire pit that they used as a huge Floo to get to earth.

“Did you give your name to someone?” Kal’gon was suddenly at his side.

“Of course not,” Voldemort snapped, digging his heels in. But his name had been well-known on earth, hadn’t it? Especially by the British contingent.

“Perhaps it’s someone from my past?” he suggested.

“Unlikely,” Kal’gon snapped. “Let’s go.”

“Wait, you’re coming with me?” Voldemort gave in to the tug once more and walked a few more paces towards the fire.

“Yes.” Kal’gon did not elaborate, but he did shove Voldemort forward. There was nothing for it. Voldemort took three more steps and was standing in the fire. Unlike the Floo, this fire was hot and he had a feeling if he stood here long enough, it would burn him. Though he didn’t get the chance to find out, because the moment he and Kal’gon were in the flames they were tugged through space and onto earth.

Immediately, Kal’gon transfigured himself smaller and perched on top of Voldemort’s left shoulder as they found themselves in the middle of a forest clearing. A witch was standing on their right, Voldemort could smell her magic and he inhaled deeply, it was a smell he hadn’t even realized he missed until it was gone. Full of earth and fire, it ignited something deep in his belly.

The witch turned to look at him, glaring fiercely, she ran at him and shoved him so hard he fell onto his arse.

“You,” she snarled, her chest heaving with her breath, and her hands clenched at her sides. “ _You_ are the cause of all my problems! You killed everyone I love. And for that, you will pay.”

Voldemort squinted, though the hair was much larger, he was sure he recognized her as Potter’s mudblood. “Granger?”

* * *

Hermione’s rage wasn’t cooled when she saw Voldemort again. He only looked like a confused old man and that made her angrier. How dare he move on in the afterlife? How dare he act as if he didn’t know exactly what he had taken from her?

Sparks started shooting out of her hair and her hands as her rage grew and grew. Suddenly, Voldemort was on his feet and behind him was what looked like every Muggle stereotype of a demon.

“Who the bloody hell are you?” she asked the stranger, taking a step back from the duo. What had gone wrong? Why was there a demon with Voldemort?

“I’m not telling you my name, human,” the demon hissed. “What business do you have with this one?” He shoved Voldemort forward. It was strange, seeing someone push Voldemort around. He was the scariest wizard of several lifetimes, and yet this demon acted as if he were a particularly nasty bit of mud on the bottom of his shoe.

“I want him to pay for what he did to my friends, my family,” Hermione demanded. “Death isn’t good enough for the likes of him. I brought him back so he could truly feel the pain he deserves.”

“He isn’t dead,” the demon gritted out, stalking closer to Hermione. She crossed her arms over her chest and held her ground. She glared up at the other entity, even as the blood from her arm dripped down her chest.

“Then I’ll kill him. Gladly,” Hermione said, neatly stepping around the demon and advancing on Voldemort. He had backed away, bumping into the barrier she had created at the edge of the clearing.

The demon sighed behind her, but Hermione ignored it in favor of her true prey. “You are a monster and deserve to rot in hell!” she screamed at him. Jumping suddenly, she wrapped her hands around his neck as they both tumbled to the cold hard ground.

“Lucifer, save me,” the demon muttered as he yanked Hermione off of Voldemort.

“Let me go!” she shouted, squirming, though he held her by the back of her cloak and her feet didn’t touch the forest floor.

“You can’t kill him. He’s a demon now.”

“A demon? What, in all that is holy, have you done?” Hermione stared up at the demon with fear. Why would anyone have made Voldemort a demon?

“He was offered a choice, as all beings are upon death,” the demon said quietly. Voldemort stood up and began brushing debris from his cloak.

“See, you can’t kill me,” he taunted her, and she screamed again and would have tackled him too, except the demon held her back. She wrenched her arms and stomped her boots on his instep, trying to free herself.

“I can’t let you kill him,” the demon explained again. He grunted when her elbow connected with his solar plexus. “Damnit, witch!”

“What do I need to do to be able to kill him?” Hermione demanded. There was nothing left for her. She wasn’t above making a deal with the devil himself if it meant she could exact her revenge.

“He isn’t a very good demon,” the demon said, loosening his grip on her. She broke free and whirled around to face him.

“I would be a better choice as a demon,” Hermione said. “Make me a demon and let me torture him for all of eternity.”

The demon flicked his eyes to Voldemort, contemplating her offer.

“Kal’gon…” Voldemort said pleadingly. “I can be better, do better! She’s a Gryffindor! She’ll be a terrible demon.”

“Well, now that you’ve told her my name,” Kal’gon hissed angrily. “I’m forced to take her with us.” He turned to Hermione. “I accept your deal.” He stuck out his hand. The moment her hand clasped his, he yanked and she screamed again as Kal’gon dragged both her and Voldemort to hell.

The last thing she heard was that damned nursery rhyme.

 _A-tisket, a-tasket  
_ _A red and bloody basket  
_ _I send a letter to a demon  
_ _On the way, I dropped it_

 _I dropped it, I dropped it  
_ _Yes, on the way, I dropped it_  
 _A little devil picked it up  
_ _And put it in his pocket_

**_~Fin~_ **


End file.
